Sugar Crackers
by Ifgrasswereblue
Summary: Hogwarts exists, but Harry Potter doesn't quite manage to attend it. He lives off sugar crackers instead and works as a temporary manager at some backwater college's library. Dark lords exist, but so do Demon Kings and Tom Riddle is one. To offer him the heart of an innocent is one way to catch his attention, but being Harry Potter does too. Soulmate!AU & IdentityCrisis!T.Riddle Jr
1. Chapter 1

**Sugar Crackers**

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ _ **I do not own Harry Potter nor any of the characters except my own.**_

 _AN: I'm not very sure how trigger warnings work, but I'd like to at least mention that there are mentions of child abuse and some very obvious examples of its application as well. If you are sensitive to the fore-mentioned content, please think twice before reading. Thanks for reading and enjoy!_

* * *

It was supposed to be an accident at first. And like every other thing in his life, it spiraled out of control faster than his eyes could catch. He tugs at his sleeves; the cuff of fabric went beyond his knuckles.

"You'll grow into it," his aunt had said as she dropped the bundle of identical clothing on the floor of the home they shared.

Harry remembered the thick scent of smoke in the air. He remembered thinking to himself that he would've believed his aunt's words if only she bothered to stock their kitchen in the first place. The teen hummed, tugging at his dark locks.

He couldn't even cook if there wasn't anything to.

Petunia Evans left the crowded living area with open curses as she tripped over the stack of gossip magazines by the patched sofa. A cockroach came skittering about. Neither aunt nor nephew would bother to take its life as it ran like they would.

A rumble of hunger makes its way into the depths of his stomach. Harry would tell the average concerned stranger that he'd already ate and his appetite was simply being a tad dramatic.

'Liar,' he'd hear himself think right after, 'but I ate already. At 5am. Aunt Petunia shouldn't be able to find the bag underneath the bed would she? I've already switched it from the wardrobe though… it was so hard buying those crackers without her knowing.

The floorboards are getting rotten. I'll need to switch them out soon.

I'm hungry. So hungry.'

The library door closes, the knob turns with a soft click. Harry lifts his head from where it was buried between his knobby knees. He was going on part-time but that doesn't necessarily mean that the hours feel any less tedious.

Before the counter he sat behind was a man. He looked young, probably a senior student. Harry notices how he fidgets like cola that was about ready to pop from its can. "How may I help you?" he inquires softly.

"Do you have books on demonology? It's for research purposes. I know it's before hols but I promise to bring back whenever."

"Yeah, we do have books on those but I can't just-"

"I'll only need those books for a few days. You have to let me borrow them. it's only for a bit and it's already dark out and my project is due real soon."

Harry would've raised a suspicious brow if he could, but he hasn't looked into that skill yet. Plus, the guy escalated awfully quick from inquiring about demonology to being absolutely sure that he had to bring whatever back to wherever with him.

The bespectacled teen smiles, it was a crooked thing.

"I'm sorry. But as I've said, I can't just lend out whatever. Not my place, no hard feelings mate. And whatever schmick you might have to look up on? It has to be within these walls. Tell you what, I'll close up later than usual yeah? Take your time with whatever research you've gotta do."

"Sure," the might-be senior mumbles. He adjusts his sling bag over his shoulder and heads towards the shelf just after the washroom.

Research purposes huh.

Makes you wonder.

Harry is hungry for food, but home always has him hunger for something else. Either way, he doesn't mind waiting for a bit before returning. Aunt Tuney wouldn't notice anyway. Fridays are pre-weekends. The woman will be out until after 3 at the very least.

Tugging at his sleeves once more, Harry scoffs. So much for all that 'what would the neighbours think' rubbish she goes on about still. Having that divorce with Uncle Vernon was the next best thing Harry could've asked for after Dudley's death. But the way Aunt Petunia was dealing with her loss?

It wouldn't take the freak of the two to notice that the neighbours have long accepted his aunt as one of the crowd that they tell their kids to never grow up into.

In Harry's book, it went under the category of freak too.

Two freaks under the same roof. One in reluctant acceptance and the other in denial. What could _possibly_ go wrong?

Harry's eyes trail after the non-existent silhouette of the senior that has long disappeared among the forest of shelves. Something wasn't right with the lad. He seemed twitchy somehow; and Harry would be the world's greatest busybody if it meant to stave off the nagging tug of hunger at his gut.

Demonology reminded him of a school that was never meant to be his. It scrapes at the bottom of his mind like the hard-to-remove stains of bacon scraps he used to accidentally burn till it stuck at the bottom of the frying pan when he'd learnt to cook ever since he could.

'Freak!' Oh, the memory was as clear as day. 'That letter does not belong to you! Give it back, boy. Before I teach you a what it means to be grateful we ever took you in!'

Uncle Vernon's face had been a splotchy purple. It matched the bruise Harry sported on both arms after serving 2 slices of toast instead of 3. The memory ripples.

The 11 year old boy had trembled. His eyes lowering as his hand gripped tightly at the strange letter. His meek postured fooled none of his relatives (or maybe they just didn't care). Harry had managed a glance at the contents already anyway.

There was a meaty hand that shoved him near the fireplace. A glint came about his uncle's eyes. It disappeared just as quickly.

' _Give me the letter, freak.'_

Hogwarts, he vaguely recalled. It was a school for the… magically gifted?

Harry doesn't bother. He rocks at the office chair where he sat. Curled up as his palms supports his chin. Freaks, they all were. That's what Aunt Petunia had mumbled underneath her thin lips, and it wasn't the most reliable source of intelligence or unbiased perspective. But they'd made him write back- declining acceptance into whatever sorcery of a school it was.

Pretty smart, considering how Harry managed to convince his relative's spawn that one time that swimming was for 'pansies' when they were relatively alone at the pool; before Dudley's parents came around with only one ice-cream in hand. Dudley kicked up a fuss because it wasn't double-scooped or chocolate. Even after all that ridiculous nonsense, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Tuney made sure to ask only dear duddykins if he wanted to learn how to swim.

Dudley said no, with the confidence equivalent to that of a scientist that rediscovered Einstein's long lost theory about electrons and whatnot.

No one had seen Harry's smile as he somehow managed to pay a dollar for a kid to accidently 'trip' and knock Dudley into the adult's pool. Good times.

The green-eyed teen hoped whatever that senior was researching for, he doesn't kick up a fuss from it. Harry was too hungry and too tired for that shit. Demons exist, they have to, Harry believes. Because people like his uncle and aunt exist too. Strangely enough, Dudley doesn't belong on that list. Blame the parents for raising such scum. Harry still hates, though. Dudley dying is a blessing, no doubt. Yet Harry doesn't consider Dudley as a contribution to his belief as to 'why Demons should exist.'

Something tugs at the back of Harry's mind. It slithers by with a hiss.

The supernatural, unnatural. Demons, angels. Magic.

 _Freaks._

Hogwarts.

 _Freaks._

'None of that in my house, boy.'

'Yes, uncle Vernon.'


	2. Chapter 2

**Sugar Crackers**

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ _ **I do not own Harry Potter nor any of the characters except my own.**_

* * *

Tom is Lord Voldemort when it is convenient.

At the very least, it is what he tells himself after the 23rd time dear Bella brings him the heart of yet another Innocent. His loyal death-eater glances upon his throne with reverent eyes. Tom is tempted to not rip them out just because he can.

And not (never) because he's tired of the way blood stains his forest green carpet. Nagini coils around his feet like the spoiled thing she was. He tells her to go hunt a rabbit, or something. 'Eloquent, my master.' She hisses as she slithers past the hall's doors.

Lord Voldemort lays his eyes on his loyal servant. "Bella," he starts, tone equally as dry as he felt. "Cease your offerings. I've no need for them just yet."

"But Master." The lady dressed in black chokes. "I've obtained this heart for you- the heart of an archangel just like you wanted."

"Who is your Master, dear Bella?"

Her eyes lower. The heart is tight in her grip; oozing with silver blood. It drips and drips and drips. The colour reminds Tom of hair belonging to a man his mortal self once feared (Defeated, hisses Lord Voldemort. Because Lord Voldemort is never afraid). As long as Bella continues to reap the hearts that pulse blood the colour of his memories, his pockets may one day empty and Tom might just have to start considering plotting the downfall of all divines just to make sure it doesn't happen again.

But alas, Tom is tired for the first time in decades. He no longer finds any motivation or pleasure at the demise of anything else except his own. Times are not like what they used to be, he ponders. He is a Demon King- albeit one among 20- but of power and immortality no less; yet Tom Riddle feels tired.

Feels bored.

Bella is still there, he suddenly recalls.

"You, my lord. Always you."

The insanity in her voice is oddly subdued. Lord Voldemort grins, it is an eerie mask and Bella feels chills shoot down her spine. She shifts from one foot to the other, the ability to instil fear with a trivial smirk is what makes her love her master so much.

She loves him, she loves him, **she loves him**.

She wants to serve him. Wants to learn from him. Want to _become_ him.

She is his. But she'll never mistaken thinking that it works for both sides; because she had let it slip once, and the jagged scars that collar her neck will remind her every day that she is his and never more, never less.

Tom yawns; it is more of an act of intimidation than anything else.

"Yess. So you will listen to me, your master. I'll need no more hearts so you will bring me no more. You have done well in bringing down your prey, but refrain from anymore souvenirs until I will it. I wanted the hearts of archangels once, but I bore of it now."

The woman's eyes gather tears, but she knows better than to let it fall.

Her master praises her and allows his warning to be kind. He is merciful, he is her Lord. She is his, and she will not ignore his past 22 warnings any longer. Because as insane as the other residents of Hell believe Bella is, she is not stupid or unobservant.

This will be the final strike. Another heart, and next one on the floor will be hers.

"Thank you, my Lord. Thank you."

Tom shoos her away. Eyes upturning as she grovels away.

He is Lord Voldemort when it is convenient. Tom is broken in the way his followers cannot fix, he is tired first and foremost. Bored, very importantly, and _just Tom_.

Lord Voldemort is someone great. Tom is great as well, but not as perfect. It angers him to no end. Lord Voldemort is everything Tom has ever wanted and worked for, possessing immortality, power, followers. But after a while, Tom realises that all those aren't truly just _his_ anymore. They belong to a shell.

The eyes he sees through belong to Lord Voldemort now. The worship belongs to Lord Voldemort. The wand, the voice- everything has been stolen.

Tom hates it when his things get stolen. So, by default, he hates himself for some odd reason he cannot explain. Only aware that he is constantly angry whenever Lord Voldemort comes to life.

The simmering anger is for hating himself. And by all Seven Hells who does that? Tom is supposed to be the orphan half-blood that rose to fame and did great things. Terrible, but great. Yet here he was, having a mid-life identity crisis.

Tom is also supposed to be tired. He is, truly.

He is tired of feeling angry when there isn't any reason to be.

Thunder claps. It is from the intricate summoning circle that forms beneath Lord Voldemorts throne. (because who else summons him unless it is for his shell? That's what so many of them want.

The death of Lord Voldemort.

The leadership of Lord Voldemort.

His power. _His this, his that_.)

No one ever remembers Tom- not that he'll ever admit that he once didn't want Tom too; hid him and refused him like the walking train wreck he is. By Merlin, all his woes are of his own doing. Tom Marvolo Riddle Jr. is nothing once more.

Just like what death would've made him.

And is it not being nothing that made him fear Death so much in the first place?

That made him create Lord Voldemort? Icon of death-fearing irony?

The glowing circle whisks him away. And Tom's heart forgets to beat for one second. He is as dead as can be; as dead as he feels inside.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sugar Crackers**

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ _ **I do not own Harry Potter nor any of the characters except my own.**_

 _AN: Omg, thank you so much for the comment Color o life! I'm not sure how to explain it, but your comment really made me smile. Like, the w kind of jitters. I'm also really really glad you enjoyed the story thus far, cause tbh, it's a strange, destination-less ride for me too. _

* * *

__Harry yawns where his head is buried between his knees once more. They don't make the best pillow, but it works when he doesn't care to compare his own body to the hard mattress back at the apartment- there are hand-sewn patches with black stitching on his bed where it has worn over the years. It smells of fungi and slightly of Harry's scent; Aunt Petunia doesn't send their sheets for washing. 'Freaks don't deserve clean beds.' Aunt Petunia once shrieked.

She thinks she's fooled Harry when he can see the state of her bed and compare to it to his own. She thinks he doesn't notice the way her dry, pale skin flare with rashes; it decorates Aunt Petunia's bones in a way only Harry could appreciate. They can't afford it. Not the washers, nor the water bills for daily laundry.

Harry never got the rashes or breakouts though. Aunt Tuney had only beaten him for it once in the entirety of the time they stayed together. Harry recalls the way she snarled "Lily. Always Lily and her _perfect skin_ , perfect _everything_!" when she'd finished. And then proceeded to take a swig of the bottle by her side as she curled herself to sleep.

Chuckling, Harry continues to doze. His head nodding off in the rhythm of the clock as it sadistically strikes 7.16pm. Lightning flashes first, followed by a rumble of thunder. The roar almost shakes the very air and Harry swears he saw the shelves vibrate. It starts to pour outside but the rain comes with vengeance. They pierce the earth outside like the final throw of spears from a million falling soldiers.

There is another bang of light but it doesn't come from outside the window. Harry makes it a point to sigh. Whatever it is that popped by for a quick visit, invites themselves from the corner in which Mr. it's-for-research-purposes has made his business at. 'Research, he says.' Harry mocks. 'What a load of bollocks that one.'

Yet there is something in the air, buzzing. His nerves thrum with the low whistle of excitement and anticipation that strikes from out of the blue. The rain continues its enraged downpour. Harry wipes his sweaty palms on the fabric of his worn-out jeans.

His heart jumps with each step he takes. _Closer_ , something hisses at the back of his mind. _He is here, he is yours._ The air shifts and Harry can almost hear the adrenaline running through his bloodstream. Whatever is in the air is pulsing and it calls out to his very soul.

He feels his soul reaching out too. And feels suspicion above all else.

The thunder-scarred teen had learned the hard way to live by a very clear line between pessimism and passivity for as long as he can help it. Because as far as Time could remember dearest Harry, Karma always favoured him whenever she felt particularly prissy.

When Harry accidently released the snake from its enclosure ( _Yes_ , he admits. _My doing_ , so hush.) Dudley fell in by accident, resembling the animal behind the glass pane like he truly was. Joy bubbled at his chest as he felt hollow cheeks pull into a smile. For a while, Harry believed things were going to be better as long as Dudley never came out.

His cousin did, though. Equally as deaf and blind to the unjust Harry felt.

The thought process was endearingly naïve.

 _Should've known better. Should've understood._

Despair was the closest thing he felt as the light from the gap on the door clicked shut. Everything would be dark and stuffy again. Ventilation was a bitch, even if he hadn't understood the concept yet.

Anyway, for three days! Plus, with no meals, the biting hunger would eat him instead. It was terrible condition, hunger was. Harry feared it more than he did when Uncle Vernon tells him to ' _Sit, boy._ ' As the whale of a man smooths the pads of his fingers on Harry's skin.

The boy felt himself sinking into the shadow of his cupboard feeling hungry, afraid, and disappointed.

Darkness wasn't the problem. His thoughts were. They went faster than a train. Gliding by their tracks as they knock the living breath out of Harry. Leaving him as a gasping mess with snot and tears sliding down his face.

You needed to have expectations to feel disappointment. Harry felt his first weight of crushing disappointment in gold.

Nothing ever turned out right. Why couldn't he be happy for once? Did he not deserve happiness because he was a freak? What made him so different if Dudley looked so damned _happy_ all the time despite being such an arse, why couldn't stopping Harry too?

The 10-year-old wanted to know. Desperation clawing its way up his throat. The ache of being alone with his thoughts intensified with every cloud of dust his relatives indirectly forced him to eat. It does not satisfy his hunger, nor his questions. The wizard-to-be, in the burrow that wasn't even his, coughed and choked on everything that could've been.

The light has never looked so lovely. So is the air that has never felt so freeing. Harry makes his footsteps light as he hurries to take a peak beyond the bookshelves. _A demon summoning, maybe._ Harry thinks.

'In _my_ library, though?'

The growl his stomach endows has never made Harry more brave. It sounded more like a suggestion than a cry for something he cannot freely give.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sugar Crackers**

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ _ **I do not own Harry Potter nor any of the characters except my own.**_

 _AN: Enjoy and thanks for reading~_

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, Tom Riddle will admit to having one too many issues that may seem trivial to some others, but not to him. Not when the rain was concerned.

Summoning a powerful demon tended to kick up a storm. It was one of the top three part of the ritual he grimaced, because Voldemort had quirks comparable to a ticking bomb. Plus, daddy issues a plenty and ('Humour as dry as Professor Dumbledore's.' Quips Abraxas. Tom has him grovelling in seconds from a dark natured charm he'd been practicing for a couple days.) many more, much to the misfortune of his followers.

He tries not to dash back in time in his own head, but fails splendidly. His conscious drops, sinking deeper and deeper. It is an abyss of nothing. But through the still calmness of unmoving waters, his memory is a trembling ripple.

Familiar faces scream _'Murderer!_ ' and ' _Monster!'_ at the top of their lungs, they have rivulets of ruby tears that slide down their cheeks as Tom's alter ego burns their homes to the ground.

Their tears fall in an illusion of slowed motion. Tom figuratively turns his head as a man grieves for his dead, charred, wife. Of all the spells Tom knew, the Killing Curse was the most painless. He'd ignored the pangs of sympathy that pulses at his chest like some poorly cast Imperius curse.

Voldemort becomes one of the reasons orphans like him exist, the thought is slightly terrifying.

But Tom Riddle was powerless no longer, and wasn't that all that mattered?

Fires danced a graceful ballet while their tails flickered to the symphony of screams and sadistic laughter that was not his own.

Voldemort had been so angry. So bitter, that he laughed as the corrupt wizard in charge of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes has blood oozing out of almost every pore. The department head fell on the body of his third wife; then, Voldemort had left because there wasn't a thing to laugh at anymore.

The dark lord hadn't forgotten to loot their books and treasures either, just because he could. Denying till his dying day that it was definitely _not_ a hoarding problem _Tom_ had gained over the years of being helpless and unloved at an orphanage that threatened his right to survive.

Snapping back to reality with a blinding strike of lightning, Voldemort's crimson eyes find themselves falling on a youth that looked no more than 20. He knew the youngster, knew his father and the father before him. They were a Light-attracted bunch that basked under everything that cried justice and good. Like moths to flame, the family's actions to seemingly 'redeem' themselves almost felt desperate.

Tom had disliked them because he believed there is no such thing as running away from the Dark; for when there was light, shadows always lurked.

Nevertheless, The Crouch family had sat with the Slytherins at their table because cunning and ambition was in their blood despite the beliefs they stood by. It garnered a grudge of respect from Tom as a boy, and it is because of the respect Barty Jr.'s grandfather earned, that Tom was willing to listen to this particular summoning.

"Master…" The teen rasps.

At a forgotten corner, one Harry James Potter did _not_ automate his response into a deadpanned look. Nor did he breathe out a sigh in prayer for humanity's future.

"You know who and what I am. Speak, what is it do you have in exchange for the heir of Slytherin to stay long enough for a cup of tea, wizard?"

Barty sputters, his eyes momentarily losing the look of adoration as he nervously shoves his hand into a slim backpack and pulls out a glass container.

"A heart from an Innocent. My Lord, won't you please accept my offering? Your servant is loyal and pure in blood. I only wish to join your cause; my father is a blood-traitor; he is a disgrace second to those mudbloods!"

"The heart of an angel is not easy to obtain," Voldemort hisses. "Not for your kin,"

A flick of the previous dark lord's fingers, and the offering is accepted. _"So mote it be,_ " Magic pushes them to say in gentle pulses.

Tom refrains from frowning. His mask is set firmly in place; no sticking charm could do a better job at keeping his icy expression on. "It is easy to see that no effort was spared into obtaining this… offering. But why do you turn your back on your family? You've betrayed a loved one once, what makes you think you won't do so again?"

Barty pales. His lips flapping open and close like the trash can he was. "Please take a seat first, My Lord. I can't believe I've been so inconsiderate. Forgive me, forgive me…"

"Enough." Voldemort waves a slender hand.

"My Lord… please…"

"I have accepted your offering. Magick herself has made the terms to our contract. My time in exchange for the heart of an Innocent. We had half-an-hour and it has been done. The clock has struck, your time is up, wizard-kin.

I will take my leave. Know that your House will never be as it once was. You have gained nothing."

The young wizard falls to his knees. Harry bends his knees and gets ready to sprint towards the screeching crackle of lightning. It is the heat that builds in the bespectacled teen's chest that drives him to such recklessness. This… make-believe Lord must not escape Harry's grasp, _because_ _he is yours_ , Magick whispers.

" **WAIT!"**

 _Because they are one_ , She blesses, and smiles upon the two soulmates that have finally come to meet after the alignment of a million stars.


	5. Chapter 5

**Sugar Crackers**

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ _ **I do not own Harry Potter nor any of the characters except my own.**_

 _AN: Happy reading :)_

* * *

If there was one thing Harry had, that Voldemort didn't, it was time.

When he was but a babe, Harry was found in a bundle of blankets with a note tucked within his blanket. Petunia makes it a point to retell the same morning she'd found him almost every time she came back to the apartment, drunk and unsteady.

'You were so tiny!' She'd cackle. Her palms roughly patting at Harry's hair, fingers running through the inky locks. He was implicitly her lapdog then, listening to her worries and grandmother's tale, pretending he understood even though Harry didn't really care. Her nails scratched painfully at his scalp, but the boy had sat and listened. He hadn't looked away either when Aunt Tuney's fingers had gotten an inch to close to his eyes that out-shined emeralds.

His eyes that looked so much like her sister's.

'Found you at the door when I wa' bout to get the milk for the day. And you were just there, waited the whole night didn't you, Lily? So much time on your hands with that magic of yours. Could turn back time with a dreadful device, could you? I think I wished you did, once.

When you loved me more than your freakishness.'

Her grip grew tighter; Harry wouldn't make a sound because he knew better than that.

'I've always thought about the way dearest dad always loved you more than I. But then that was still okay, because I was your sister, Lils, I loved you too. More than Vernon, maybe not more than my baby Diddykins, but I loved you more than you'll ever know.

But then, Daddy started to take your freakishness into the equation and I fucking hated it. He was going senile, he couldn't see why when I tried to snap that stick of yours, I was saving us both.

Because look at you, sis.'

She'd whisper that particular line, Harry never forgot. Hushing the line, pretending it was a secret. _'Look at you, sis.'_ Like Lily Evans was truly there.

Then Petunia acted as though she'd forgotten Harry existed at this point during her drunken trip down the self-reflecting memory lane; she'd tug at her nephew's hair with the rage of whipped horse drawn carriage, Harry flinched.

'Look at you! DEAD! GONE without a trace, and not even that time turning device can save you now. My sister, dead because of her freakishness. Dead because she didn't listen to me, her only sister.

She may've prettier than me, smarter than anyone in class, but we shared the same father, for fuck's sake. Why did you have to be so stubborn?! Why couldn't you just understand, that all I wanted was to be normal like everybody else? Everything would've been fine, then. You wouldn't have gone out to die, I wouldn't have to take care of your freak son, I wouldn't have lost _MY_ SON!'

Petunia's hands left Harry's hair, they clasped over his shoulders instead, and she shook, hard. Harry could feel a ringing at his ears that was the sound of his brain being rattled back and forth in his skull.

His barely pieced together glasses would fall on to the floor-

Voldemort steps gracefully in front of Harry. The sound of rain seems to go away entirely, the bespectacled teen looks into the eyes of a monster, and found likeness with him.

"You're like me." The strange adult states.

"I'm the librarian at duty. Yes, we share the same hair colour, I realised."

Tom smirks, and vows to claim this boy as his.

"Thomas Marvolo Riddle, Lord Slytherin, and the 7th Demon King of Hell's lovely circle. It is a pleasure to meet you. May I ask for your name in return?"

"Harry, just Harry." The teen cracks. Avada green eyes shimmer with _something_ underneath the lightning-lit night. If there was one thing Harry Potter had, that Voldemort didn't, it was time. Because Tom's soulmate had once carelessly blanked about being his life's own protagonist with a tragic past (there was too much time on Harry's hands, really). Which was quite unsettling, in its own right, for Harry never liked to label himself as an 'abused' individual.

The term seemed to cut somehow.

He never liked to think about his rotten past. But there was something about Tom Riddle that made him recall all that could be, but never was. Made him think of all the sufferings he'd gone through, and that Tom understood it, too.

Made him think that this man appeared in his life one memory too late.

For the first time in their lives, Harry hated.

Tom loved.

Lord Voldemort didn't know what to do.


	6. Chapter 6

**Sugar Crackers**

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ _ **I do not own Harry Potter nor any of the characters except my own.**_

 _AN: Happy reading! Leave a comment because positivity fuels my soul. Unless it's constructive criticism and that works too I guess._

* * *

"Isn't it about time you left, Mr. Riddle? We're closing soon."

"Cold, aren't you, Hadrian."

"It's Harry. Now go, and bring along that _friend_ of yours while you're at it. He needs help, I think." The younger man nods, and makes a point by giving a nonchalant glance at the wizard- not to the teen's knowledge- who's passed out on cold hard tiles of the college's library.

Tom has a face of a cat that caught the canary. The smirk is painfully endearing.

"Do you find his presence… distasteful?"

Harry sighs, and rests one hand by his side, while the other lands on his hip. He turns to look at the self-proclaimed Demon King from the organised chaos that was his desk. Random trinkets lay about scattered all over the worn out piece of smooth cedar. Tom observes the self-help book buried underneath the startling amount of food magazines. He decides to leave the questions for later.

Harry knows that the man before him thinks he hadn't caught the split second the Demon King's eyes widened. The teen is also pretty confident the man knows more than he should despite having met Harry for less than a day.

"I find people distasteful, in general. No offense." Harry quips.

"None taken." Tom replies coolly. Pushing up his round-framed glasses, Harry gives a breathy sigh. A scratchy groan might've escaped his lips too, but that wasn't important.

"Leave, your Majesty, and I'll pray to whatever damnation up above that I don't believe in that we don't meet again."

Harry prepares to turn; half his body already faces the exit not very far away. The beacon of Tom's interest doesn't let him take more than a few steps on the rough grey carpet before he grips Harry tightly at his wrists. Harry bares his teeth, and snarls. Tom admits to find that a lot more arousing than it should be. "Stop it!" Harry snarls. "Go, why don't you. Nothing's bloody stopping you. For God's sake, don't you have things to do, like, people to rule, souls to terrorise or something? That dressing you've got going on is not going to do any favours for you here on Earth."

He was hungry and it was late. And there was this constant itching that kept Harry feeling more on edge than when Aunt Tuney drank more than she should've back at the apartment (they don't call it home. They never will. Aunt Tuney is stuck in a time that no longer exists, Harry has read of _Home_ in books, but he's yet to find it.)

"You feel it, Hadrian." Tom. "Denying Magick is a horrendous mistake; she is always watching, and Her punishments are not feared for no reason. Come with me. There's something about you, Hadrian, that I must know. I am positive you have questions as well. I have answers. Or we can find them, together." Tom feels his lips quirk upwards. Abraxas has crossed his heart and sworn to poke a thousand transfigured needles in his eye if it causes anything less than aggravation when Tom smirks _the smirk_.

"No, I don't. Not really."

"You're being stubborn, Hadrian."

"Heavens above, it's Harry. What _is_ your obsession with my name? You add it behind everything you say."

"I've read that the addition of such gives much flair to the point I intend to cross. Plus, I've been told that it endears me to people."

"Bugger off. You're about as endearing as the Devil himself on a broomstick."

"…"

"I didn't say that, alright? That wasn't me."

Harry turns away from Tom again, but his movements aren't as twitchy, so Tom doesn't stop him. The former dark lord wandlessly transfigures himself a set of muggle clothing he's researched on some time ago in a newspaper or something like that. He doesn't quite remember when he's read it or why, but Harry takes personal offense in finding the handsome piece of work (Harry's not blind. He wears glasses but he's not **blind**.) in _frills_. Locking the door behind him, Harry looks a touch cross, Tom notices.

They walk down the bland school corridor for what feels like an impossible stretch of time; like one of Bint's history classes in an uncanny resemblance. Only, Tom doesn't remember feeling tension possessing a solid form in the air. He can pretend he isn't nervous, because Lord Voldemort is never nervous. But it will be a pathetic lie, nevertheless, as even the ego himself can't seem to comprehend what in Merlin's name was actually going on.

Tom Marvolo Riddle, orphan and patron saint of teen angst, gifted a soulmate?

It felt too good to be true.

Harry stops when they reach the main entrance of the school. The glass doors are locked together with a rope of thick rusted chains. Tom unlocks it with a twitch of his lips before Harry pulls out the keys. The raven haired teen cocks his head. "Okay." He drawls.

They step out on to the wet pavement. The rain has stopped, yet the clouds have not cleared. It is a deep shade of grey, blanketing over the sky protectively. Harry wishes he has a thicker sweater to hug him into a warmer embrace. He settles for wrapping his arms around himself instead. "You'll get me a meal now, Tom. And then tell me about magic."

Harry tells himself to pretend he doesn't hate Tom. He's getting a free meal, after all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I do now own Harry Potter or any of its characters.**

 _AN: **HAH** haha omg gaiz I'm so sorry I totally forgot I had pre-written chapters until I decided to finally start of the _9th _chapter. Once again, thank you so much for the reviews and happy reading!_

* * *

Tom furls his lips in disgust as Harry brings him to a declining, and frankly speaking, sorry excuse of a café. He wasn't exaggerating, alright? Lord Voldemort knows he ought to have the place crash and burn when the sharp wave of coffee smell almost has him tripping with disgust. It's the smell, he tells himself, not the un-mopped puddle of spilt bean-grounded disaster where Lord Voldemort lands his feet on while he criticises the signboard that looks days from dropping.

Harry can die that way. Just like that, the former dark lord muses. And wouldn't it be a _gratifying_ experience, the rudeness and constant whirlwind of fluctuating emotions will finally stop. Tom can feign patience all he wants, but the Lord Voldemort persona he's made knows that the dramatic bastard (literally, Tom flinches inwardly) is secretly offended by the way Hadrian brushes him off like dirt from his shoulders.

Such treatment warrants death, Lord Voldemort says. It'll save him time from all this drama (heartbreak, Tom whispers, like it is a dangerous secret), as well. But, Tom Riddle will choose to wait and observe. Reluctance or hesitance is not a feeling either egos are familiar with.

' _You're losing your Merlin damned mind, Tom. Lord Voldemort_ _ **is**_ _you, as you_ _ **are**_ _Lord Voldemort.'_ A voice that sounds suspiciously like Harry scolds. _Shut up,_ Tom hisses defensively. Outside, his mask is firmly stuck. _'I'm not even real, you bloody wanker. Talking to a voice made by your own head? Forget losing, you've lost it already, Riddle.'_ The Harry imposter voice laughs. It is mocking.

His soulmate is jeering at Tom; he's looking down on me. He doesn't see me as his equal. He doesn't want me, like nobody wants poor, broken Tom the orphan, the Slytherin, the...

 _(Shut up, shut up, shut up.)_

Anyway, does ventilation not exist in the muggle world? Because by Salazar, Hogwarts had better ventilation when they do- stir me silly, with fumes the colour of a rainbow- _Potions_ in a _dungeon_.

The teen strides inside as if it were his own home, and had Tom asked, Harry would have agreed. Not at the home part, but more on the part where he comes here for shelter more often than he ought to. The person behind the chipped counter greets the pair with a blinding smile, Harry waves back, a responding smile on his own lips. There is _not_ an inkling of Slytherin green envy that raises its scaly head at Tom.

They take their orders- Harry orders 4 bottles of water and a cinnamon bun.

Tom gets himself a generously black cup of coffee. Like your soul, he hears Harry say under his breath. Curious, it has his head perking to attention. The younger teen catches the smirk sent his way and flushed slightly. Tom can feel his ego practically inflate.

The strangest thing about it is that he doesn't even understand why.

Scowling, Harry observes with no small amount of amusement at the colourful variety of expression Tom seems to exclude. Outwardly, nothing really changes, if anyone else catches glance; but, Harry knows, the soft thrum that hums gently within him tells him so. The self-proclaimed Demon King's emotions resonates with Harry in the way his funny (Harry thinks) distress lets out short, sharp pulses- tasting of spice and smoke; his puzzlement feels like the nudge of a curious pup- soft and harmless.

The bond had been weak earlier; so it grows with time, the human concludes thoughtfully.

Settling down in their seats comfortably. Harry finds himself restraining a bark of laughter as Tom looks as though he's made it his life's mission to make their coffee table shine underneath the lights. Right after they've taken their seats, the man whips out a well embroidered cloth with a large basilisk on its corner and wipes the table almost obsessively.

The raven haired teen snaps his fingers in front of Tom's focused expression. It's rude, he knows. But Tom didn't look anywhere near satisfied with that one spot that isn't going away…!

"Magic, Tom. You promised to tell me about Magic."

Lord Marvolo scowls in expression to his distaste at being treated like some poor underpaid and overworked waiter. Those poor souls did deserve basic courtesy, truly. Only two people know he petitioned that particular parchment, thank Merlin. The Demon King has a reputation to uphold after all. (and if anyone said it was a closure for Marvolo's own days of making ends meet through whatever means- he'll make it a point to feed that being to Nagini gleefully)

"Ah, yes. Magic." he drawls. Legs crossed on top each other with his hands on his knees. The coffee disappoints, truly. Not nearly bitter enough.

( _table, table, table_ ; clean the blasted table!)

The table is being eyed critically, Tom flashes a brief smile. "To be frank, dear Hadrian. You're a wizard and Magic simply is."

Harry, in response to his explanation gives the Demon King the most deadpanned expression in all of Tom's excellent memory. Emerald eyes half-lidded with his lips fixed into an eerily straight line. Even the air around his soulmates seems to drop a notch in the dead amount of displeasure that Harry excludes in waves.

The Heir of Slytherin does not squeak, mind you. Tom has long mastered the art of keeping his lips shut for political reasons. Dark, piercing eyes glare into Harry's own in a mock challenge. To add frosting on the cake, Tom has even the technique of a one eyebrow lift- hah! Tom's explanation is perfectly adequate; it isn't anyone's fault but Harry's if he couldn't get his pretty little head to understand.

"Explain more on the 'Magic simply is.' Part?" the younger male sighs.

Humming, Tom fingers twitch for the napkin he's left on the disturbingly splotchy table. "Have you ever done things you couldn't explain before?" He asks his soulmate instead.

"Whenever you feel a little upset, or angry, strange things just happen? Like if someone upset you, they fall to their knees in pain?

Animals obey your command; they jump when you tell them too. Hurt when you want them to. It applies to humans, too, of course. You get the idea; Magic does Her best to please Her children. You only need to ask, and she will answer."

Harry presses a hand to his temple, "For fuck sake, Tom. Are you some sociopath I should be aware of first?"

The Demon King has the gall to look offended. He doesn't splutter, but it is a close call. Tom stutters instead ('STUTTER?!' Lord Voldemort screeches uncharacteristically.)

"W-what? No. I am not a sociopath. I am Tom Marvolo Riddle, Heir to Slytherin and"

"I get it." Harry waves a pale hand. He leans forward, hands crossed against his chest as he rests on the table slightly. Sighing, "Alright, Tom. It seems that I am a wizard. Or whatever. I get the Magic thing, at least what I think youre trying to make of it."

Relief washes over Tom and his eyes widened for a split second at the emotions that possesses him to feel grateful(?) for the approval. He clicks his tongue as Harry takes a bite from his pastry. The soul bond is dangerous, Tom squints irritably.

But deep inside, Tom Riddle becomes hopeful.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of its characters.**

 _AN: Hello everyone, happy reading for this chapter!_

 _By the way, I was kind of re-reading this work right, and then I realised that writing and updating after 2 am is really doing no wonders for my tenses and shit so I'll be fixing that real soon (*cough* one day that isn't today); don't bash me yet, I know okay. I know._

* * *

Much to Tom and Lord Voldemort's dismay, Harry leaves with nothing but a simple, polite "Bye." When he finishes his cinnamon roll and half a bottle of water from the four he treated himself off Tom's money. That isn't the issue, however; irritation bubbles at the back of his mind when even after all Tom has done for his soulmate, the younger male doesn't even look back as he heads out back wherever.

'And I've never taken you to be so needy.' Says Lord Voldemort grouchily in his head, trying to come off distant, but Tom knows that the Dark Lord persona feels the slight itch beneath his skin too. It isn't often that they get treated like something unimportant, like the least dangerous predator in the room.

Well, perhaps Tom understood the feeling better. Lord Voldemort has never been one for dwelling on the past after all. He had to let bygones be bygones if he wanted to get anywhere in life- once upon a time. Now, with all the time in the world, a bone weary exhaustion lovingly sits itself on Tom shoulders and the weight makes him want to heave.

Magic rolling throughout his body, the ex-head boy of Hogwarts sigh before returning to the deep workings of his manor. A tug pulls below his navel and he greets his lovely bed with a graceful flop. Only possible if it's within the sight of none but precious Nagini, of course.

He feels the moment she slithers in lazily. Tongue flickering in what can pass off as a reprimand. Toms scoffs before burying his head into a springy pillow. "Brooding does not become you." She says bluntly. The Demon Lord cannot really bring himself to care; turning his head, he eyes her grumpily, crimson orbs flaring. "Hush, you," A pause of silence. "I met my soulmate today."

Curiosity strums at the strings of their bond, Nagini wraps her large body around Tom's own when she makes her way on to the bed. "Oh?" The Basilisk hybrid smirks. "Do tell, how was the hatchling then, Master?"

It is a vain attempt, but Tom tries to wrangle himself out of her comforting coils. At this rate, he'll be spilling within no time. Lord Voldemort rolls his eyes, fondness practically rolling in waves if the way Nagini tightening her grip causes a quirk to up from Lord Voldemort's lips. "Unhand me, Nagini." Tom hisses like an irritable cat.

"Oh please, I've not any arms to unhand you with in the first place." She drawls smugly. He will not splutter and make a fool of himself anymore for today, Tom promises himself, but honestly, "Lipsey!" he calls.

A smoking 'pop!' and the winged imp appears by her master's bed. "Yes! What can Lipsey do for her master today?"

"Lipsey, order a new napkin from the usual." Humming thoughtfully, "and get me a plate of Cherry Crisps would you." The imp's eyes seem to brighten immensely as she pops back out of existence with a joyful "Yes! I be getting master's napkin and snack now!"

Nagini, still wrapped around her master without the slightest intention of loosening her grip, flicks a forked tongue. "Excuses." She hisses teasingly. Tom has his pride, so he does not acknowledge being found out. "Fine." He grumbles instead. "His name is Hadrian."

"Just Hadrian?"

"We just met. He hadn't said any more than that."

Tom idly fingers his long-time companion's cool scales from where he's managed to (barely) wiggle a hand free from the tight gaps of Nagini's coils. He hears a huff in a way only Parselmouths understood. "And to think you once had male and female-kin such as yourself throwing themselves at your feet while they tell you their deepest, darkest secrets without so much as a warning. You've let yourself grow lazy, dearest master."

A light blush creeps up Tom's face and he hears the exact moment Lord Voldemort covers up a frustrated screech with a gruff grunt at the involuntarily blush. Truly, the 'Lord Voldemort doesn't _this_ and Lord Voldemort doesn't _that'_ thing going was starting to get boring. Let the cursed thing throw a tantrum. Tom will roll his eyes and say he doesn't care (he does).

"Go find something to hunt, impossible thing." He tells Nagini instead of reprimanding himself like some madman. The reptilian familiar hisses out a strangely endearing laugh before leaving. "I'll be out at the warm lake, instead." Tom nods before moving his limbs a bit to get blood flowing properly. He contemplates visiting Earth once more just to annoy his soulmate apparent. Or to kidnap him back _and then_ annoy him. Hardly any difference, really.

'I'll do it tomorrow.' Tom decides in the end. For now, mountains of paperwork awaited him at his office. Much to his dismay, it is also the only thing that keeps Lord Voldemort silent. It's like the alter ego could choose when to separate his mind with Tom's or something. All because paperwork was just **that** torturous to one's heart, mind, and soul.

* * *

On a realm separate from Hell's own, Harry contemplates idly with a finger on his chin if returning back to place had the inevitable pain to come worth it. It's evening, with the sun settling nicely at the horizon. Harry calmly observes the shallow puddles of water reflect the clash of warm orange and soft pink hues with cold eyes.

The emerald eyed teen shifts his attention to the weight of the water bottle he carries in his bag, sighs and touches upon the topic of Magic from Tom earlier. Would be it possible if he-

Shaking his head, Harry slaps his palms on his cheeks. A faint red blooming. Bad thoughts, _freakish_ thoughts. If Aunt Petunia dies, he'll be sent off with even more unfavourable company for sure. He needs the Aunt Tunia at the moment, as much as he hates to admit it.

Fridays were calm days, Harry smiles softly to himself. He remembers thinking about his last blood relative's late return for the night. Scuffing the soles of his worn-out converse, he drags his feet back to the shithole they tolerate as their 'home' apparent.

As often as he returns, Harry holds no love nor attachment to their sorry hovel. He settles down the bottles on the floor of his room and starts to crank open one of the floorboards of their apartment. They live on the first floor, ground. Harry sees no problem with lifting up the dusty piece of wood as long as there is something to hold him above ground.

He neatly stacks the water bottles by its sides. Rearranging where the fragile crackers went. Aunt Tunia liked to steal his food, sometimes. Especially if it saved the cash she uses to buy more alcohol than she should consume. Harry grimaces, some days he feels the need to look into her head. Whose money were they living on, if not her own, in the end? It's like the woman is still trying to lie to herself after all this while and she is failing horribly. Pitifully.

Then again, the money is supposedly his to use? You know, as the legal ward of an employed guardian in society? Harry wonders, placing the third bottle in his self-made stash-hole. No, he shakes his head. He hasn't taken any money that wasn't his own for a while.

To start with, Harry is the proud part-time employee of one library and convenience store. His scholarship must mean something too. It's not as if he's expecting praise worthy of the heavens or anything, but one of the self-help books advises to practically _absorb_ any form of positivity he could get. That… _is_ something to be proud of, right? Despite the circumstance.

Getting off from his knees, Harry cracks his knuckles and takes approximately 6 minutes to stretch out a bit. He wants to practice the thing called Magic. As submissive he normally acts around a crowd (or even Aunt Petunia). It'll be a very helpful tool to have in case of emergencies. It's as though since the short (and hopefully last) presence of Tom in his life, something clicks in Harry and he understands the need to possess power.

The emerald-eyed boy doesn't know if Tom is aware of it, but the pure unfiltered charisma and Magic when was first summoned almost had Harry on his knees. Harry had felt awe instead of fear; a sealed part of his heart crumbles disastrously like a poorly made Apple Crumble Pie. The raven-haired boy suddenly wants.

He wants and _wants_ and _**needs**_ \- the euphoric surge of power that seems to flush all of his problems away ('Gryffindor courage.' Fate fondly smiles, gently brushing the fur on their dearest pet's neck).

It had been that very moment Harry realises his abuse cannot go on; with each time his stomach grumbles and every minute he stays just a bit longer at college avoiding 'home'. Or even the way he flinches when someone comes a foot too close or talks just a decibel too loud. Harry will stand the pain no longer; he will learn to fish even if there is no river.

Aunt Tunia will learn to at least file her nails before she stands anywhere near him.


End file.
